Tightrope

I walk a tightrope, hoping that maybe I’ll have enough strength to get all the way across without falling. I move carefully, praying that I won’t misstep. The weights upon my shoulders seem to become heavier the farther I go. But I must push forward, it’s the only way left to go. I see others around me stumble and some fall. All I want is to help so I beg them to share their burdens with me. “I can handle it,” I promise. I dare not draw attention to how much I already carry. “Let me help,” I beg. The weights I carry aren’t all my own, and though I want to share the burdens I’ve already slung over my shoulders I dare not let anyone help me. My cries remain quiet and personal, a secret. I mask my constant fear of falling with jokes and fake smiles. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to just fall. I walk a tightrope, and it seems to never end.